


Concubinus

by grizzly_bear_bane



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Betrayal, Coming of Age, Costume and Crossdressing Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gambling, Heavy Angst, M/M, Master/Slave, Multiple Partners, Punishment, Redemption, Requited Love, Romance, Size Kink, Voyeurism, references to past rape/non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:27:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grizzly_bear_bane/pseuds/grizzly_bear_bane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the auction block, Arthur had to make a choice: </p><p>Gamble away his life to a Roman senator with a list of debts and an even longer list of enemies, or let the dogs have him again. </p><p>It's a good thing Arthur's never been a fool. Lucky for Eames, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cyparissus, the mourner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tamat9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamat9/gifts), [whalebarf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalebarf/gifts), [Whisky (whiskyrunner)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskyrunner/gifts).



> +
> 
> Beyond a doubt, this fic is NOT for the faint of heart, but if you love raw angst, this drama is for you. 
> 
> Tremendous praise for tamat9, whose blueprints and foundation made it possible for me to build this house.
> 
> As always, comments, critiques, and suggestions are greatly appreciated.
> 
> For sneak peeks of new chapters, inspiration, and questions, check me out on grizzly-bear-bane.tumblr!
> 
> Enjoy!

 

I hate and I love  
Why do I, you ask?  
I don't know, but it's happening  
and it hurts

_― Gaius Valerius Catullus_

++

+

 

 **January 1, _Kalendae Ianuariae_ , 71 AD |**  **Rome**

 

Beyond the heavy, thick curtains and the press of other captives, cheers and fanfare filled the streets of Rome.

Aharon could feel blood trickle down his thigh under his dirty loincloth. The sting of a jagged rock cutting his flesh had hurt, but Aharon knew it was worth it. This pain would be much more bearable than what was in store for him had he not improvised.   

He'd known the dimensions of rape since his abduction several months ago. Perhaps it had only been one month; he couldn’t keep track of time, always transported in the dark with the rest of the captives for sale. All he could remember before the smells and dampness made his head ache was running in terror from the soldiers with his sister…and then a ship…and then grease-covered hands, nothing more. He wasn’t sure if he could consider himself lucky or not—not yet. He knew what he had faced on that ship wasn’t the screaming and tearing kind of brutality, but the careful rape by men smart enough to know how not to bruise the fruit or let it spoil before its sale. Not even their master who had sold him to the man who would be selling him today knew that he’d been touched.

He wondered if it would have even mattered had the seller known. Certainly the men who would barter for him on the block today wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, so blinded by their lust. With Rome in the midst of suppressing the great rebellion in the east and a taste for exotic slaves sweet on the tongue, the price for this Judean boy would be high, and these men were ready to pay.

Aharon swayed on his feet. The cut was probably infected now or bleeding too heavy. He didn’t know. He and the others hadn’t been taken out into the sunlit block yet, and he wouldn’t check himself now or risk hindering his plot.

His face still had yet to lose its softness in favor of a beard, but he wasn’t naïve. He'd heard enough of Roman ways to know that the younger men from the richest families had money enough from the war to buy virgins, and with that kind of money and youth came tempers that flared at the slightest shift in the wind. If there was no way for Aharon to free himself, he needed to be sold to an older man, someone too tired and relaxed for the type of cruel imagination the young ones were certain to have.

So, he’d taken a sharp rock to the soft junction of groin and thigh and let the wound bleed. They would see the blood and think him freshly spoiled. Then he would fake a swooning spell and fall off the stage. In the chaos that followed, he’d run. None of the slaves were bound. All of them simply had a board hung about their shoulders with their number on it. When the men would look for him, that board would be all they found. And if he was caught, well…his father and his ancestors at least would be proud that he tried.

+

 

The light was blinding when the seller’s guards pulled back the curtain and brought them all out on the platform. The Forum was already filled with people buzzing in their excitement from the festival and parade from the Temple of Jupiter on Capitoline Hill. They were eager to bid over the new war souvenirs.

Shivering in his thin covering, Aharon could see what the others looked like now. Two women weeped at the corner of the auction block, who he’d sworn he’d seen before as a boy, and four other naked women stood, trying to cover themselves from the winter's chill, beside him. They would most likely all be sold to brothels. Six coal toned men and one Egyptian were bartered over for the governor's house, perhaps to serve as guards or chariot drivers. Then there was Aharon himself, the youngest of the bunch and the one they all glanced at with pity. He was truly starting to grow dizzy. The severity of all that had happened, of all that _would_ happen beyond this moment, hit him at once.

There were no old men. Not even a man with grey in his beard was there to barter for a bed slave. Aharon closed his eyes and fought to keep his resolve from crumbling. He needed to map out a quick exit strategy.

But the plan was already failing. Rome was a city too big for Aharon's mind to fathom. The city where he and his father had taken their farm's produce was only mud, clay, and straw in comparison to the might of Rome's infrastructure. It was any wonder how tribes and even whole countries thought to beat back the conquering armies that came from a place with such heavy, polished stones and the great, massive columns supporting every building. It could be beautiful, with its painted walls and decorations, with the shower of festival pedals and ropes of garland, but the smells and the throngs of people shouting, butchering animals, whipping others in rags, and selling their sex right out in the street, made Aharon's stomach cramp. How could he possibly escape this place?

And here was another problem. Aharon couldn't keep up with the Latin the seller and bidders spoke so rapidly, but from the way the men were shouting back and forth with the seller and pointing to Aharon’s legs, he guessed enough of what they were saying: The fool seller had tried to pitch Aharon as a virgin _eunuch_ , having never taken the time to actually look at Aharon before buying him, and now all the men were accusing the seller of having just cut him moments before! The smarter men in the crowd accused him of far worse.

He had Aharon by the shoulders, shaking him and demanding to know who had defiled him, but Aharon couldn’t speak. Now they all thought he was mute and dumb as well as torn.

He was startled when an arm came down between him and the seller. One of the bulkiest men, dressed in a thick, white toga lined with a purple stripe over a white tunica, had climbed onto the platform to prevent further chaos.

“Eames, you’re a good man!” Aharon heard the seller whisper. “Help me! I had no idea this had happened!”

The man’s brow furrowed. “I don’t doubt that, nor do I care, Deemethresi. I was passing through to get home when I saw your hand raised. If you intend to sell him, a bruise on his cheek won't help you.” 

“Eames, please, they’ll be dressing me up like a bull and sacrificing _me_ to Jupiter for the new consuls—"

"You _are_ certainly fat enough to pass for one," the man teased. 

"—if this madness doesn't end. I’m innocent,” the man begged. “Buy the boy! Take him from my hands so my reputation cannot be further soiled.”

He frowned. “I’m not in the market to buy one of your overly priced exotic toys, Deemethresi, especially not one that’s bleeding. Learn how to control your guards' cocks first, and then perhaps, I’ll consider.” 

“But, Eames, you’re a soldier—” 

“ _Was_ a soldier.”

“Well… As a senator, I’m sure a bit of company would still be most enjoyable for a noble Dominus such as yourself on your time off?”

“I have no time off. We're in the middle of war, if you've forgotten.”

“Just…will you stand guard for me until I regain control of this crowd?”

“No. Your guards—”

“Are most likely responsible for this! One favor. Please?”

The man eyed Aharon up and down before he sighed. “Fine. You owe me for this.” When the seller hurried off, he eyed Aharon again. “Are you much hurt, boy?”

Aharon shook his head quickly, feeling dazed. This man with wine on his breath…was neither young nor old, and he'd said that he had no time for boys, and he’d been called a good man, although, coming from a filthy slave trader, that might not work in Aharon’s favor, but in his time of desperation, it was worth a shot. “Sir?”

"Silence."

He stood closer. "Sir?"

“What?”

“I am…I am not…much hurt.” He swallowed when the senator eyed him again. He took care to enunciate every word to be certain the man understood. “Please…Please help me,” he whispered. “I do not want to go to any of those men. I beg you.”

“You won’t be going to them now,” he answered, distracted by the seller’s arguing with a young soldier. “Mostly likely a brothel, since you’ve been…” His attention snapped back to Aharon the second he seemed to process what he was being told. He hissed. “You little cheat!”

“No, I offer you to please take me for yourself!” he whispered, daring to reach across the small gap between them and touch one of the many folds of his toga. “Do not let them have me. I have never been touched, I swear. I will do what you say. I will be obedient. Please.” 

The man’s jaw clenched and unclenched. Aharon gasped, frozen when the Roman's hand went under his loincloth and felt about between his legs, making sure that Aharon told him the truth, or at least enough truth. Aharon would curse the men who’d captured him until the day he died, but at least, as the senator called the seller back over to talk with blood still on his hand, Aharon was grateful that their handling wasn’t about to cost him more than it already had. 

“A quarter of the starting price to take him off your hands,” the man said.

“No! Eames, there were men willing to bid over sixty thousand danarii! You would put me in the hole for nearly fourty-five tho—”

“A quarter of the starting price," he repeated sternly, "and I’ll drive these dogs off for you. That’s my final offer.”

“But it's just a little blood. You will use him for the same purpose, after all. It's nothing that won't heal, surely? Eames?" He cursed in another language. "Damn it…fine. Fine. Damn you, Eames.”

“No, damn your guards, instead,” the man cut his eye at Aharon, “for not keeping a better watch over your property.” He turned to address the crowds. “Good men, I beseech you, lend me your ears,” he shouted, his voice carrying, “as I make clear this grave sitatuation.” When the noise died down, he explained, “Good men, I have seen the boy myself, and I felt of a face that was smooth only from being shaven to appear as such, as you and I might do to our own fully grown faces.”

Aharon thought quick to keep the confused frown from his face, catching on to the man’s plot.

“Not only is this boy still in tact, but I lament in telling you that his tree has been shaken bare as well.” The crowd of soldiers and wealthy merchants’ sons erupted in a chorus of anger when Eames showed them his hand as proof, but the senator quieted them again. “His damage is severe, but it is also no fault of this noble Babylonian, who has never been false before, and who was tricked into buying used goods. But if anyone here wishes to buy the boy still, perhaps as a stable boy or cupbearer—”

“Look at him, Eames!” one man shouted. “Surely an old soldier knows when a boy’s got strength and that one couldn’t carry a pebble in those little lily hands!” Most of the others agreed.

The senator exchanged banter with a few others as most of the crowd dispersed to make way for the brothel and house slave buyers.

Aharon’s spirit dropped lower than he thought it could go as documents were hurriedly signed, payment arranged, and the two men shook hands. It was over now. He’d been sold.

He swallowed again when the man led him from the block and turned to him with a smug grin. He felt like an ant under a bull’s foot when the senator grabbed his jaw to look at his face.

“Well, well,” the man muttered to himself. “Look at what the goddess Fortuna has brought me this fine morning—Good work, Eamesie.”

+

 

Aharon's hands gripped the wooden table. He bit the inside of his mouth and whimpered when Eames drove the needle through the wound, stitching him up.

“You’re a strong one,” Eames commented. “That’s good. Just let this be a lesson to you never to trick me the way that you fooled your seller.”

Everywhere Aharon looked, slaves moved about or stood in the corners, dressed plainly in clothes that looked expensive. One hurried from the room at Eames' command to bring water. Aharon blinked tears out of his eyes and groaned pitifully at what he now saw on the floor. Aharon didn’t know what room this was, with its bloodstained table and blood spotted floors, but he was sure this wasn’t where the cooks chop up the meat for the Roman's meals.

“My former bed slave,” Eames explained, seeing Aharon rub his hand over a stain as if the red spot wasn’t old and dried. 

Aharon trembled, looking up at the man who seemed to dwarf Aharon with his bulk. The Roman looked much larger than he had on the street. Aharon was doomed.

“There used to be an old shutter hanging outside my bedroom window," Eames continued. "He always complained of the chill it let into the room during the winter. I forbid him from trying to tinker with it, but one day, when it was especially cold, he waited until I’d ventured out of the villa, and went against my warning. The other slaves claimed it gave way almost immediately, sending him to the stone below. I tried to save him in here, but…” Eames sighed. “I’ll just have to be strict with you. He was very doted upon, that boy.” He knotted the last stitch. “There, good as new.”

Aharon winced as he sat up. He tried to cover his nakedness, but Eames moved his hand aside.

The man squeezed and caressed under Aharon’s knee, eating him up with his hungry gaze. “Yours is just the perfect form. Wherever you came from, you must have been fed well. I almost want to keep you bare." He trailed his fingers along the soft dip in Aharon's abdomen. "Simply gorgeous. However, only one of my slaves is castrated, and though they all fear me, there’s never been a naked boy in my house to tempt them towards disobedience before. A simple drape of cloth for a tunica might do, I think. At least while you’re in the common rooms.” He smiled and ran a gentle hand through Aharon’s hair. “Do you have any idea what I’m saying, or are you just nodding your head at me?”

“I understand basic Latin."

"Basic Latin…” he trailed off, expecting Aharon to say something more, but Aharon had no idea what.

“I am your Dominus now, your master. You must always address me as such when you speak,” Eames finally explained, handing him a cup of honey water when the slave returned with the tray. “Or some variation of that title.” He narrowed his eyes as if leafing through Aharon’s brain. “What’s your name boy?”

He told him, remembering to address him correctly this time, before he gulped down the cup of water and accepted a second.

“I shall name you Arthur, then. It should be easy for you to remember.” Eames crossed his arms, still studying him. “I’m surprised, Arthur. You know Latin, but you don’t know how to address your master. Why is that?”

“I've never…” he felt his dizziness return.

Eames eyed the dusting of dark curls around his cock and under his arms. “How old are you, boy?”

Arthur had to shrug. He didn’t know, suddenly, as if a part of his mind locked itself from him now. He didn’t know where he’d come from, or what language he’d spoken so fluently before. He only remembered his father’s panic right before the soldier held him down to cut off his head. He knew his sisters’ screams when the soldiers caught hold of their lovely hair and fine clothes, and his mother, stabbing one man but overtaken by the rest.

It hadn’t occurred to him until now that perhaps the soldiers saw him running with his sister and had originally mistaken him for a girl as well. Maybe that was why his mind shielded itself against the memory of what had happened to him and his sister, in that field and to him again, before that first ship took him across the Great Sea, where he'd been delivered into the hands of the men who’d fooled the sellers.

“Arthur, for fuck’s sake!”

He snapped out of the thick fog and groaned, covering his head. The front of Eames' leisure clothes were soiled in Arthur’s sick. He hadn’t even felt his stomach turn.

Eames grabbed him by the arm to toss him on the floor. Arthur grimaced and clutched at his scraped shoulder. He stayed where he’d landed, cowering when Eames called in a few more of his slaves to clean the mess.

Arthur waited for punishment, but none came. Eames stood there glaring at him as the others fussed over his ruined sandals. Arthur knew that look. His father gave him that look all the time when he’d misbehaved, before his head was… Arthur felt dizzy again, but kept it under control. He had to fix this. He hadn’t even been in the Roman’s house for an hour and already that look had him speared.

“Dominus? I—”

“Hush. I haven’t given you permission to sp—”

“But I am sorry! I'm sorry! I don’t know what happened!”

All the slaves gasped, frozen in place, their eyes wide and focused on their Dominus. They flinched when he spoke, as if prepared to feel his wrath even for an infraction they hadn’t personally committed.

“Atta,” Eames called the Egyptian eunuch forward. “Three lashes and a bath. Now.”

+

 

Arthur held his tongue and glared at the slave through his stream of tears.

“Hate me all you want, boy, but you ought to know better than to treat your master as you did. Or at least,” Atta smirked, “now you do.”

He’d only been given three quick lashes on his bottom and thighs and it was over. He’d been whipped with a switch before by his mother, after she’d caught him fighting a boy in the field. The eunuch’s wielding of the switch had been nothing compared to hers.

But, the bath, now, _this_ was the true punishment! The salted water was hot and made even the scrape on his shoulder burn. When the eunuch made him sit forward to wash his back, he could feel the dissolving salt rocks under his sore bottom and thighs. It was pure torture. He was more than ready to stand when the eunuch ordered him to, but now his welts were burning as his legs and groin were scrubbed. Oh, how he’d been mistaken by the senator, by his appealing face and gentle hand in the street.

He was forced to sit again. He tried to pull his knees up to his chest, but the eunuch yanked on his ear. Arthur was certain his torment was only just beginning, he realized. He glanced at the bald, plump man. He couldn’t help but let his eyes travel downward, envisioning the mystery under the man’s colorful clothes. “May I—”

“Hush, boy.” He scrubbed Arthur’s chest harder.

Arthur had never seen a eunuch before. He wondered how the man had been cut— _what_ had been cut—and when. He’d heard rumors before that eunuchs were cut as children to preserve their youthful beauty, but…this one was bald and round with a pointy nose and a permanent scowl on his face. Were some eunuchs cut as grown men? Arthur was neither man nor child. He rubbed his cheeks, wishing he truly did have a beard to shave, because without one, he was sure he too would be cut, and then there would be nothing left of whoever he was before he’d been made a slave. His journey to manhood would stop right here.

The Dominus had said he was gorgeous and wanted him to be naked always. His stomach rebelled again.

Atta screamed and dragged Arthur from the water by his hair. “I swear to all the gods that if you do that again, I will drown you, you filthy little dog! Look at this mess!”

Arthur was given three, much harder lashes and an even hotter bath.

He couldn’t fight his tears this time, and cursed whichever one of those gods had blessed him with such wonderful luck as this.

+

 

He was lashed a third time for trying to run after the bath. At this point, Arthur’s butt and thighs were on fire.

“You’re lucky, boy,” Atta muttered through Arthur’s sniffling. “Your punishments are like sweet honey compared to what the rest of the slaves get for only minor offenses.”

Arthur trembled under the strong grip of two bulky, dark men as they held him down on the same table where his thigh cut had been stitched. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I wasn’t trying to escape, I swear. I just don’t want…” His hand slipped free and he covered his groin.

Atta snickered. “Oh hush, boy. You get to keep your precious little balls. Now stop squirming.” The eunuch’s brow furrowed in concentration as he pierced Arthur’s nipples.

Arthur was able to bite his tongue through the burn when his navel was pierced and adorned with a little ornament, but he couldn’t help but scream when Atta pierced his perineum.

“There, now.” The eunuch beamed, playing with the tiny silver loop and pearl on Arthur’s navel. “You look dazzling! The master will be quite pleased to see your decorations.” Atta watched him cry. 

Arthur looked down at himself, speechless now. It hurt. This hurt worse than the rock had. What had he done to deserve this?

The eunuch sent the other slaves away and set about cleaning his tools. “I didn’t cry nearly as much when I was actually _cut_ , and I was much younger than you then. You make it seem as if…” He sighed when his eyes met Arthur's teary glance. “There, there, little Ganymedes,” he soothed, sincere, patting Arthur's knee. “You’re a long way up from Troy, but the view from the clouds and the protection of the eagle’s wings will all be worth this little pain soon enough. You’ll see. Other men would only have you be their whore, but our master, if you are good and kind to him, may very well rise you up so high that you will think yourself a prince. So take comfort, boy.”

Arthur looked up at him and saw his gentle smile. He nodded, hoping the Egyptian told him no lies.

+

 

  

  

   ****

_graphic by tamat9_


	2. Catamitus, the cupbearer

+

 

The tunica he was given to wear was nicer than any fabric he’d known. All its hems were sewed in shining gold to match his sandals. Atta and the slaves wrapped and draped the soft, shear pale green around him with precision, keeping it in place by a golden fibula pinned over both shoulders so that it hung low down his back and rested high over his collarbones, but not low at all on his legs. His tunica barely covered his groin, let alone the red welts on the back of his thighs. It seemed even shorter once he was given a thin, woven belt. They all thought it was amusing when he’d asked them for undergarments.

Walking gingerly, he followed Atta through the villa with a promise from the Egyptain to see more of the grounds tomorrow. The columns, the walls, even the ceilings were painted and decorated. Everywhere he looked, large, rare plants were being watered by slaves, couches were being dusted, and giant statues on top of stone platforms and fountains filled the atrium, showered in sunlight. He was led to the smaller second floor and peeked out of the elaborately fenced windows to see the grounds enclosed by high walls. He felt as if he were standing in a king's palace. Everything in Rome, it seemed, was made of great wealth and riches.

"He's all yours for now, my sweet lady," Atta announced to a woman standing at the far end of the walkway. "His name is Arthur. Isn't he just adorable?" He kissed her cheek and winked at Arthur before he left to return downstairs.

The woman would have been quite beautiful if not for the way she looked down at Arthur past her nose, as if he were still dirty and sick. Her dark braided ropes of hair almost touched her knees, and, most importantly, she wore the stolla and palla of a free woman. Arthur feared that she must be Eames' wife. “Your master will receive you at sundown,” she informed him. “I will give you these instructions only once, so listen carefully. When the sun begins to set, make sure that you are seated outside of his bedroom door and remain there until you are called. Do not enter his bedroom until he gives you permission. Do not, ever, go into his study. Do that, and he will beat you. Step foot on the street outside these walls, and the guards will beat you. Try to run, your master will kill you. Do you understand?"

He thought too late to close his mouth after it had been open all while she spoke. "Um…" He nodded even though he'd only grasped half of what she'd said. "Yes, Madam." He glanced around and swallowed nervously, seeing how massive the guards were standing at some the doorways they passed through.

"Good." She crossed her arms. Her smirk was wicked. It cowed Arthur. “My name is Mallorie. I am in charge of the Dominus' private chambers, therefore, you will answer to me, and I must be accountable for your behavior. If I see one vase or token out of place, or your little bottom in one of your master’s fine chairs, I will beat you myself.”

Arthur was loathe to say that he missed being Atta's charge. Mallorie's glare possessed a bite far sharper than any lashing could.

When Arthur made no outward gesture of complaint, Mallorie continued in a much lower voice. “I feel I ought to warn you. I know your secret, boy. I’ve seen enough girls and boys walk the same as you, awkward and attempting modesty out of _experienced_ shame, rather than from fear of the unknown.” She shook her head. “You are no untouched prize like Cassius was when your master took him into his household. Upset your master again, and you may find yourself once more in the bed of others, because a few of these guards know how to play with ‘virgin’ boys as well.” She paused when they reached the end of the open hallway and glanced at him. “Take care, Arthur.”

+

 

Arthur had no idea what rooms constituted as the Dominus' private ones, nor did he know what a study was. As covertly as he could, he let Mallorie walk off and followed her, hoping that it might give him some clue as to where he could or couldn’t be, but she quickly disappeared around a corner and was gone.

He sighed and decided it safest to simply sit right here until someone came looking for him, but the floor was hard under his knees. Trying to sit on his bottom or tailbone had similar problems, but the cool stone made his legs feel better until he shivered from a chill. He couldn’t stand here all day. His feet would ache. He couldn't sit and let his bottom get any sorer either.

He stood at the mouth of two short hallways with rooms attached to each, wondering which one Mallorie had disappeared into. Down one corridor, he saw what looked to be the bedroom through the wide archway.

He picked the second one. Light blazed from all the open windows in the wide room he entered. Inside, maps and paintings covered every space on the walls that weren’t lined with scrolls and plants. Across the stone floor were short columns supporting busts and statues, along with all sorts of weapons, and relics crafted from marble, bronze, and obsidian.

Arthur stood in the midst of the room in awe, his eyes trying to absorb everything. He didn’t dare displace a speck of dust, except… He glanced over his shoulder at the opened doorway. Would anyone be upset if he spent his time reading?

He knew he wasn't allowed to touch anything, but he still peeked at the scroll on the desk and turned it around to see it better. It was written in some bizarre language he’d never seen. Beside it was another scroll that looked almost identical, though it was much longer and in Latin.

“Hm…” He matched the two parchments together, a finger pressed below each corresponding word. “Ea…mes, E…am…es,” he tried, sounding the word out. It was the only word on both parchments that was the same. “E…ames?” He repeated it again, playing with the pronunciation until it clicked. “Eames!” he whispered, proudly, now knowing how to spell the Dominus' name even if he was sure he still pronunced it wrong. “Br…i…t-Bri…ta…n…ni…a?” He frowned, scratching his head and tried the corresponding word. “Bri…ton? Hm.” What on earth was a Briton? Some special military or governing title, perhaps?

“Wow. You’re able to translate Britonic as well?”

Arthur spun around with a gasp, his heart pounding. He blinked at the floor in front of Eames' feet.

“On your knees, boy,” Eames ordered in a soft tone that confused Arthur.

He obeyed at once, folding his hands in his lap to stop them from shaking. He flinched, prepared to be beaten. He shivered when he felt the man's fingers comb through his hair in gentle strokes instead.

Eames admired Arthur's new clothes. “Did Mallorie receive you yet?”

His eyes stayed on Eames, watching, waiting for him to strike. “Yes, Dominus.” He shivered again as that hand continued its sweet caresses. Arthur closed his legs tighter and pressed his clasped hands more firmly in his lap. He took a deep breath, feeling flushed all over.

“Did she give you my instructions?”

“Yes, Dominus.”

“Ah." Eames' brow rose. "So…you _chose_ to be disobedient and did the one thing you were forbidden to do anyways?”

Arthur’s heart dropped. What had he done now? "No! I…" His stomach shriveled like a dried grape. His eyes traveled around the room before settling on Eames’ patient face again, as it finally dawned on him what the study was.

He was as good as dead now. He knew it.

Arthur opened his mouth to begin another tirade of apologies, but Eames pressed his thumb over his lips, keeping him silent.

“Come along, Arthur. I want you to accompany me to supper.”

+

 

Even before his capture, Arthur couldn’t remember ever seeing this much food on one table before. And it was all entirely for one man. Three long, flat couches sat around it, framed by large potted plants. Slave boys tended the wood in two large firepit bowls on either side; the smoke traveled up through the open ceiling of the atrium where Arthur could see the last of the sun setting.

Eames admired Arthur's legs from where he lounged on one of the couches as Arthur poured his wine and served his plate. “Wait,” he called behind him when Arthur moved to stand with the others. “I didn’t dismiss you, come back here.”

It was like the air thinned in the room as everyone silently gasped in unison. No one said a word, but Arthur knew what they were all thinking. It was clear that not even Mallorie had ever been invited to sit at the Dominus' meal.

Too bad Arthur was hungry and his bottom still sore from his lashes and decoration. He squirmed sitting on the mosaic floor beside Eames' couch, trying and failing to keep the backs of his thighs off the hard tiles. He looked away when Eames saw him fidget again.

“Does it hurt?”

Arthur kept his eyes on the table in front of his face, fighting the urge to bolt or rebel. He nodded quickly. His cheeks burned when he heard Eames chuckle in a low, satisfied rumble.

“You may all take your leave. Arthur will tend to me just fine for the time being,” Eames said to the others. When the room cleared, he sat up. “Come here, boy. Now that you’ve had time to reflect on your status, let’s see if I can’t remedy your current situation.”

His heart beat more and more erratically as he was sat in Eames’ lap. It wasn’t as good a solution for Arthur as it was for Eames, whose thick cock was hard under his clothes, but his long toga was soft and much easier to bear than the floor had been.

“Relax, Arthur,” Eames whispered against the back of his shoulder. “You’ve already paid for your infraction. You have no more reason to fear me—until, of course, you make me cross again. But you’re a smart boy and you catch on quickly, right Arthur?”

"Yes, Dominus." Goose bumps rose on his arms when Eames' large hands began to rub his back in long, circular motions. Every now and then, he laid whispers of kisses over his shoulder blades and neck.

“Go on then, eat what you want.”

Some of the food didn't look very appealing at first glance, but he tried everything. He almost moaned getting his hands on the freshly baked bread and berries. He tasted fish for the first time and quickly discovered it to be his favorite. He ate all of the fish he could find on the table, but regretted drinking down the rest of Eames’ cup. He didn’t realize how strong Roman wine was until he put the empty cup back on the table. His shoulders relaxed as Eames began to rub his arms with the same gentle touch as before.

“It seems you’re used to eating big meals, yes?”

He tried to give him an answer, to tell him about the meals his mother and sisters used to make for him and his father whenever their trips to the markets brought home good profits, but the words stuck in his throat. His appetite diminished.

Eames sighed. “You speak when told to be silent, but when told to speak, you say nothing. Arthur, you are incredibly peculiar and leave me swimming in a sea of questions, lamb.”

"Sorry," he muttered to his knees. "It's true, we… We were never hungry."

To Arthur’s relief, the man didn’t pry any further than that. After supper, Eames brought him back upstairs to the study where he had slaves bring pillows for the couch in the corner for Arthur to sit on. Eames handed him scrolls in Latin and Greek.

Arthur looked at one and shook his head. "I don't know Greek, Dominus."

"That's fine. Try the other." He sat at his desk watching the boy read to him aloud.

Arthur frowned, struggling through the texts, but whenever he glanced up at Eames, the man was gazing at him with something akin to wonder and pride.

“I enjoy hearing your voice,” Arthur heard him murmur after a while. “Your pronunciations are improving quickly. Did your last master teach you how to read?” When Arthur shook his head, he asked, “Who was it then?”

Arthur drew one of his folded legs close to his chest, wishing he could disappear. “There was no master. My father taught me.” He wondered if he should have lied. Eames' raised brow made him dread being asked more questions about his family. He was distracted from his worry, however, when he remembered that he wore no undergarments and imagined the view he was giving the man. He quickly closed his legs.

Eames flashed a little amused smile before he glanced over a piece of parchment on his desk. “So this land it says you were taken from, on your proof of sale, was your father Isaac’s land, then. Correct?”

Hearing his father’s name pass the lips of his Dominus made supper difficult to stay in his stomach. His hands, his whole body suddenly felt covered in the blood of his family.

“Arthur,” Eames called to him in a firm but careful voice that pulled him out the hole in his memory he’d fallen through. He didn’t realize he was crying until a corner of the ink splotched with a fallen tear. He quickly wiped his eyes, his cheeks hot with shame.

Eames stood tall before him and extended his hand. “This reading exercise ought to be enough for today. Let’s retire to bed then.”

+

 

It didn’t register what was happening until Arthur blinked and found the back of his knees touching the edge of the bed.

The room was a bit larger than he’d assumed it would be. There’s was plenty of space enough for the bed, a lion’s fur rug in front of the hearth, a writing desk in front of the wide windows, and a fountain large enough for a person to sit in.

Every wall was covered in lewd murals of various characters in erotic poses, all engaged in some form of carnality. Arthur lowered his eyes, blushing deeply at the more graphic frescoes. Little winged figures frolicked in the carved, painted posts of the bed. The thick, red quilt and the dark wolfs’ furs were soft. The little clusters of gold sewn into the shear curtains draped from the canopy shimmered like rain in the bright glow from the oil lamps and fire.

“Undress me,” seemed to be the last thing Eames said for a long while as Arthur figured out how to unravel Eames from all his draped layers.

All evening, Arthur had pondered over the man’s age, wondering if he was more older than young or, he shuddered, simply a more weathered version of those other soldiers who’d bartered for him. The latter proved true. It didn’t sit well with Arthur’s nerves. The man’s form belied no laziness or stagnation. Only thick, hard muscle rippled under his war-scarred, tanned skin and freckled shoulders.

Eames slipped out of his thin undergarments himself. With gentle hands, he unclasped the fibulae holding Arthur’s tunica on his shoulders so the linens hung from his belt.

“What do we have here?” The man smiled. His thumb brushed over one pierced nipple, making Arthur wince. “Easy, now,” he soothed, wrapping an arm behind Arthur’s waist to hold his wrists, preventing Arthur from covering his chest. “See?” he teased, laying kisses over Arthur’s cheek as he toyed the nipple with a much more careful touch. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

He was right. It _did_ feel good. Arthur wanted to run from that truth but Eames’ grip on him was firm, his touch unrelenting. Arthur buried his face in Eames' shoulder to stifle his moan, his cock beginning to swell, his skin flushed. By the time Eames’ lips traveled to his neck, Arthur’s knees were trembling.

Eames chuckled and let go of his wrists to remove his belt. He played with the decoration on his navel. His eyes swept over Arthur again as he circled behind him.

Arthur tried not to flinch away from the lips trailing up the back of his neck or the hands that mapped his shoulders down to his hips and the curve of his ass. He shivered, still not expecting such soft touches. He squirmed a little out of Eames' reach when the man touched a welt.

Eames hummed close to his ear. “Atta is usually more lenient than this. That’s why I had him punish you.” He traced his hand down Arthur’s thigh. “What could you have done to inspire,” he counted each stripe from the switch, “ _nine_ lashes!” He whistled. “Hopefully you require no further breaking in, correct?” When Arthur nodded, but didn’t speak, he dug his nails into Arthur's aching thigh.

Arthur hissed, remembering himself. “I meant, yes, Eames." He quickly clamped his hands over his mouth, knowing he'd made a big mistake. He didn't even have to look at Eames' face when the man crossed his arms.

" _Eames_?" The man raised his brow.

"I'm sorry," Arthur whispered behind him hands, glancing at the door, as if thinking of running would help him.

Eames stared at him for a moment longer before twisting Arthur's ear.

Arthur yelped. He had to fight the urge not to swat away Eames' hand.

"Well?" Eames asked, smirking at Arthur's thinly hidden rage, still holding his ear.

"Forgive me, Dominus,” he gritted out.

"Will it happen again?"

Arthur wanted to spit in his condescending, smug face. "May I say something?"

Eames frowned and squeezed his ear tighter. "Go on."

"I've never had a master before. I could…I could tell you I won't ever misspeak or make mistakes, but it would be worse to lie to you, so…" He rubbed his ear when Eames let him go, his cheeks burning and both his ears red from either pain or embarrassment.

Eames was smiling again. "I like your ears. They remind me of a little monkey's." He crossed his arms again. "Is your apology sincere?"

"Yes, Dominus," he muttered to his feet, hearing Eames chuckle.

“Good boy.” He massaged his fingers through the back of Arthur's hair. “Lie down on your stomach after you pull back the sheets.”

Arthur heard the command, his mind processed the command, but his body wouldn’t move. Arthur stared at the bed as if it would bite his hand.

“Arthur?” was his only warning. He startled when Eames smacked his ass with only a little of the strength he knew the man carried.

His piercings hurt to lie on them, but he made no fuss. Arthur watched Eames strut to the bedroom's entrance to send one of the girls in the corridor on an errand. When she returned, he sent all the slaves away to stand outside the door. Arthur closed his eyes and focused on the sound of cicadas outside the windows. The night breeze made him shiver as it slipped under the closed shutters.

Eames spread his legs out straight and wide to sit between them, voicing his happiness to see one more decoration. Arthur bit his cheek when Eames checked his wound and the little silver loop on his perineum.

He flinched when a cool, damp cloth pressed gently over his welts. Water sloshed in the bowl as Eames soaked a second cloth and then a third, pressing one over each red line, making sure to kiss away any stray drop of water that landed on Arthur’s skin. The aching burn, the soft whisper of lips and scratch of a rough beard, and the cool, soothing cloths; all these conflicting sensations did Arthur’s head in. He panted into the pillows, trying to remember how to pray to his father’s god and forgetting why he needed to pray when Eames parted his ass and kissed the most private part of his body.

“Dominus!” he gasped, feeling his cock grow even harder. The man stroked his back as his tongue delved deep, softening Arthur’s hole. It was nothing at all like the touch from those others. He remembered feeling like a rabbit trampled under chariot wheels then, but now all he could do was rub his cock against the sheets and stifle his heavy sighs.

Eames ceased his kisses to trail his lips over each cheek and up his spine. He kept his full weight off of Arthur as he kneeled over him and turned him on his back.

Arthur was still flushed looking up at Eames' looming, predatory figure. For a moment, he panicked, fearing that he would be crushed under the man. He couldn't breathe. When he tried to turn his face away, Eames caught his jaw, his thumb caressing Arthur’s lips.

“I like it when you look at me,” he whispered, tracing his cheekbones. “I’ve never seen mahogany burn as fiercely as I see in your eyes.” His strong arms circled Arthur’s waist. He kissed his nose. “You are the boy I wish to see immortalized in all these murals, Arthur.” He kissed his jaw. “I’ll have to keep a close eye on you or else the gods may try to steal you." He kissed his neck. "You deserve poems and serenades to praise those eyes and all your fine parts.” He kissed the hollow between his collarbones and smirked. “You’re worth every coin I paid for you and _so_ , _so_ much more.”

Arthur wanted to kick the man in the face for making fun of him with his ridiculous words. If the Dominus of the house intended to use him, well…it was best he get on with it, instead of wasting his breath. Arthur knew what he looked like, he didn't need to be lied to.

Only, when Eames fell quiet again, the fear and dread crept back into Arthur’s bones. He hadn’t even realized that he’d been relaxed, even comfortable, until those feelings returned. All he knew now was that there was no impending sale or need to preserve him anymore. He would be Eames’ slave forever. The man could cut off every finger on Arthur’s hands if he wanted to. Soon, all the pleasure he treated Arthur to would melt away to unending pain.

Eames must have felt him flinch. He doted on Arthur with more kisses on his neck and chest. It was almost enough, but Arthur needed more, needed to hear his voice and know where he was, because Eames' loose grip under his knees was too familiar, too much like those others, as he drew back to look Arthur over again.

Arthur closed his eyes when his knees were spread wide and hooked over Eames' shoulders. Every inch of inner thigh the man could reach, he kissed in a slow descent. Arthur held the sheets all the while, his chest heaving, braced for Eames to hurt him.

Eames wrapped his lips around the head of his cock instead. Arthur gripped the sheets tighter and moaned, entirely beside himself with this immense new pleasure. Eames hummed, his nose pressed to Arthur’s bed of soft hair as he swallowed more of him down. A language other than Latin tumbled from Arthur’s lips, whispered and begged until Eames moaned and pleasured him more passionately.

Arthur erupted in his mouth, his legs tight around Eames’ head, his spine arched like a setting sun on a horizon.

His eyes were on the ceiling’s murals as he moaned through the crashing waves. He hadn’t noticed the figure painted in the scene right above the bed. The demon-like creature with red skin and black horns was ravishing a fainting youth over a boulder. Serpents lapped at the demon’s hoofed feet. Arthur came down from his long fall, clutching his heart, unable to breathe knowing that he’d just given in to this same demon.

Eames pulled his face into a deep, claiming kiss and smirked into it when Arthur tried to pull away from the taste of his come. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, unable to look at the man or risk falling into his temptations once more. What was worse, the man had yet to find his own pleasure and his cock was as hard as marble and hot as fire against Arthur’s hip.

 

But nothing else happened. Arthur lied awake in the Roman's arms all night, expecting the boatmen’s dirty, groping hands to appear out of the shadows and above him an evil sneer on Eames' face when he used him viciously, but…still, he remained unmolested.

The last of his strength seeped from his pores in the wake of the pleasure he’d been given. When Arthur could no longer fight sleep, he drifted, deeper than he’d been able to rest in far, far too long.

+

 


	3. Ganymede, beloved of Zeus

+

 

He was still nestled in the Dominus' arms when he woke the next morning. Eames was petting his hair, kissing his face gently, and pumping Arthur’s cock through a quiet release.

Eames tasted his come on his hand before he met Arthur’s sleepy gaze. “I have an extremely important meeting with Vespasian,” he said softly. “Do you know who that is?" Arthur shook his head. "He's the Emperor, and thankfully a good friend as well. I should be back late, so take your dinner with the others. Now lamb, I don’t want to return here tonight and learn that you’ve been disobedient, alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You may sleep a little longer if you wish. It’s still quite early. But first, I have something for you.” He stood and stretched before walking to the writing desk.

Arthur sat up when he returned. He peered at the golden band Eames slid up his arm, as the man made sure its fit was snug. Two snakes spiraled together and intertwined as if protecting the red stone at its center. Arthur touched the band with wide eyes, unbelieving that it was really his to keep. "Thank you," he whispered. 

“All my slaves wear this, though not one so fine. You will always have the best of all I give, _if_ , of course,” he pointed his finger, “you stay on your best behavior.” He leaned forward to kiss Arthur's shoulder. “And never be afraid to ask either Mal or Atta about anything. When you disobeyed her before, I understand it was because you didn’t know better, but that excuse is only good enough one time.”

Arthur didn’t doubt it. For however gentle the Dominus' voice was in the early morning, his eyes still carried his warnings well.

Arthur lied back on the pillows and closed his eyes, but cracked one open when he felt Eames leave the bed again. His brow furrowed, but he didn’t move, waiting.

Waiting for something that didn’t come. Mallorie arrived to help Eames dress. They spoke softly together and left together.

Arthur propped himself up on his elbows as his mind raced. There couldn’t be a single bed slave from here to the ends of the world who had a Dominus that would do what Eames did, which was nothing. Nothing at all. No sweat, no grunts, not one whisper of pain. Just soft kisses and petting and the promise of more gifts?

+

 

He was silent all morning and sat through Atta’s bathing with his thoughts all twisted.

"Much better without the salt, yes?” the eunuch teased him. “I'm going to miss these little baths. The master wants you to start bathing with him from now on. Look at you, Arthur. My barbarian youth is turning into such a proper little pet." He patted Arthur's cheek, playfully proud. When Arthur nodded blankly, he tried again to make him speak. “I trust your first night with the master couldn’t have been all bad? Hm, Cupidio, fair son of Venus?” He splashed water in Arthur’s face.

Arthur snatched the tower from Atta’s hands and dried his face, glaring as the eunuch laughed quietly.

He patted Arthur dry and wrapped him in a blanket as two little girls brought in a tray of food for breakfast. Atta sighed, plucking up a few grapes. “Fine, fine. I suppose I understand if you don’t wish to talk to me.” But when he turned his back, Arthur reached out for his sleeve. Atta crossed his arms, eyeing the blush growing on Arthur’s face. “What is it, boy?”

Arthur was about to sit on the floor before Atta pushed him onto one of the couches. He glared at him before dropping his eyes. “He said that I could…” He wondered if Atta was the right person to ask, but he had to be a much better option than Mallorie.

Atta frowned as Arthur’s eyes lingered on his groin. “I see. Hm.”

“Wait, no! No, not—I wasn't staring, I—I'm sorry. I was just thinking.”

“Hm. It looks rather painful for you,” he mocked. “Well? Do you want to see my scar, or…” He began to loosen the pink sash he wore to untie his trousers.

“No!” Arthur held up his hands. “I just…” He heaved a sigh. “Were you a…did you, when you were young, were you…” He rubbed his face and tried again. “Eames—" He was smacked on the head.

"The _master_ ," Atta corrected, looking around them.

"Yes, he didn’t…he didn't do…anything.” He was relieved when Atta’s brow rose in understanding. “Is that ordinary?”

The eunuch smiled. “I see." He sat down, lounging on an adjacent couch. "It’s not normal, but the master is no ordinary man. He treasures those who share his bed when they’re good to him. Are you disappointed that he didn’t—”

“No!” He lowered his voice considerably, catching the eye of the other slaves who went about cleaning the floors. “No. I’m relieved it didn’t happen.”

“Oh please, boy. You act as if sex is death! Oh, to be in your place, what a wonderful life that would be! Of course, our Dominus is terrifying in his anger. He was a general. And I’m sure with your mouth, you’re in for more than a few beatings, but our master would never think to use that beautiful cock of his for pain. Your only fear ought to be that he might someday grow bored with your barbarian wildness, find someone else for his bed, and then sell you to the highest bidder. The brothels would go to war to buy you.”

Arthur’s eyes went wide at the thought of being back on the auction block, and worse, the nightmare of the brothels. He didn't want one man's hands on him, let alone hoards of them. He shivered. “Well…what should I do then?”

He ate a few more grapes and shrugged. “Give him your hole or your mouth." He cut open a pomegrante. "Get on your knees, sit in his lap—those are his _favorite_ positions—or however else he wants you, and let him take his pleasure. You’ll find yours as well along the way, I’m most certain." He grinned. "You’ll never have a better master than ours and I doubt any would ever be as handsome and endowed as he—Has he taught you any skill yet?”

Arthur tilted his head. “Skill?”

Atta chuckled, patting the space beside him. “Over here then, boy. I’ll show you how to keep his interest.” He had one of the slaves fetch a small jar. Little erotic figures were painted around its middle. “This, Arthur, is a mixture of olive oil, salve, and mixed berries to give it a sweet scent. Doesn't it smell nice? He'll think it's perfume, unless Cassius mixed the same formula. Either way, it's certain to get the master's blood pumping.”

Arthur stared from the jar to the eunuch and swallowed. He tried to speak, but no words could form. He was still as one of the statues when Atta reclined him on the sofa as the other slaves began to dust and clean the curtains and columns.

Atta dipped a finger in the mixture and opened Arthur's blanket to spread his legs. “You have such a nice body. I’m so envious of you. I’m certain several others are as well.” 

His blood turned cold. “Um… Atta?”

“Hush. You must pay attention. The first rule is to always make sure your body is well oiled and prepared whenever the master may think to take you to bed.” He rubbed his oiled thumb around Arthur’s hole before slipping it in. “You’ll want to do this fresh from your morning bath on the days that the master is here, but most times, oiling yourself in the evening before he returns home works as well. Our Dominus isn’t a small man, so you’ll have to always remember to soften yourself comfortably for his girth not to hurt you. Sometimes, he may want to prepare you himself, which ought to be a fun thing to share, I'm sure. When you disrobe yourself, or if our master sees fit to do it for you, always leave your clothes on the floor. Never pick them up yourself, but you must always take care of our master’s clothes. That is your responsibility.”

The eunuch continued to offer him tips, but his focus was on his hand as he tried to slip in a second slender finger. “Relax, boy. That makes it easier. See?” He curled his fingers and added more oil. When Arthur didn’t respond, he glanced up at his face. His stilled his hand. “Arthur?”

Arthur was staring up at the sky through the open ceiling, a deep frown and streams of tears marring his face. His hands were balled into fists at his side.

Atta's eyes went wide. “Oh no…” He snapped at the nearest slave to bring wine and an empty bowl. He cleaned his hand and slapped Arthur’s cheeks gently, bringing him back.

Arthur jerked away from him as if he'd been asleep and hurried to dry his eyes. “Sorry.”

“No, no, no, my sweet boy." He rubbed Arthur's hands. "It’s not your fault. I understand your trepidation now, lost Sporus." He frowned. "Does our master know?”

Arthur shook his head. “He would not have bought me if he did. Please don't tell him, Atta. Mallorie knows, but…” He gripped Atta's hands. "He can't know that I'm…that I've been ruined."

His shoulders sank. "No, my boy, you're not ruined." He sighed. "What's been done to you, it changed you, I'm sure, but it did not ruin you, Arthur. Never ruined." 

He made Arthur drink the full cup of wine down at once and had the bowl ready to catch his sick if he needed it. “You won’t appreciate me saying this, but we have to remedy this problem at once.” He patted Arthur’s neck and forehead with damp cloths. The second and third cups of wine, Atta made him drink more slowly, watching him carefully. “How do you feel now?”

“My head is swimming,” Arthur groaned.

“Good swimming or bad swimming?”

Arthur puffed out a confused, short laugh, his thoughts cloaked in a pleasant fog. “There is a difference?”

"Quite the philosophical enquiry."

He laugh again, musing and buzzed. He let Atta lie him back down on the pillows and watched his hand delve back underneath his blanket. He gasped, blushing when two fingers entered him and stroked slowly.

Atta’s brow was creased, still watching Arthur’s face, ready to withdraw at the first sign of distress. “How does that feel this time? Better?” He grinned when Arthur moaned, allowing a third. He sat back with a heavy sigh and washed his hand. “How would this world survive without alcohol? Rest, if you wish. I'll stay with you and get you dressed. When you've regained some of your wits, we'll need a plan for when the master returns.”

+

 

He kept Arthur under his wing all day, busying him with tasks and errands on the first floor of the villa until noon passed and the sun began to set.

“Have you met any of the others?”

“Only Mallorie.”

“No, no, the other slaves. Come, then.” He patted Arthur’s cheek. “I can smell the Ethiopian girl’s bread baking from here. My stomach won’t stand waiting another second.”

There were a host of different plates passed around the shabby tables as the slaves shared their meals and the wine they’d made. By the end of supper, Atta had Arthur pleasantly buzzing and swaying a little on his feet.

“One more?” He hung on Atta’s arm trying to steal the eunuch's cup half full with more wine.

“No more. I only need you to be _nearly_ drunk, not all the way. You need to relax and _remember_ tonight or else this whole plan will fail and I’ll be flogged for your stumbling and slurring.”

Some of his drink had worn off when the Dominus finally arrived that evening.

“I see that the slaves and Atta are spoiling you,” Eames had said, eyeing him as he passed by. “I shall receive you in my room in half an hour.”

Atta helped Arthur to prep himself this time, which proved much more comfortable with his own hand instead of someone else’s. He gave him one last drink as well—with a whisper of mandragora, just in case.

Arthur was alone with Eames now in the bedchamber, sitting in his lap as Eames wrote a letter at his desk.

Eames’ hand idly petted his hip under his tunica. Arthur swallowed, feeling his nervousness coming back but his fog kept it from breaking through to the surface. Arthur looked at Eames’ writing hand. His fingers were thicker than his and Atta’s. He swallowed again, praying that Eames wouldn’t want to do more than what he’d done the night prior when Eames’ wandering hand brushed his cock and discovered the slickness behind his balls. Eames' writing stumbled.

Arthur froze, his eyes trapped by Eames’ gaze.

Eames' voice was rough when he spoke. “Atta showed you what to do then?”

He nodded, but when he began to speak, Eames made him stand.

“Undress me.”

Arthur glanced at the slaves, expecting Eames to send them off as he had the night before, but it was the last thing on the man’s mind, it seemed. He took a deep breath, feeling the warm buzz flow through him renewed now that he was back on his feet. This would be okay, he promised himself. He’d done this task last night. He could just…pretend no one else was here, that he wouldn’t have to go through this night with so many eyes on him. But then, why were his hands shaking? He couldn’t look higher than Eames’ chest and refused to acknowledge Eames’ stare. His fumbling was cut short when Eames took his face in hand.

“Arthur, it’s quite impossible to free this fibula without actually looking at what you’re doing.”

He laughed awkwardly. “Sorry. Dominus. Sorry.” He took another breath and smiled when Eames tickled him under his chin to make him laugh again.

“Look at that lovely smile,” Eames muttered. “What must I do to see more smiles from you?”

Arthur hoped the question was rhetorical, because his brain wouldn’t allow for him to form words _and_ look at Eames at the same time. He tried to see him the way Atta did. It helped a little. The Dominus was handsome when he was pleased— _and clothed_. Now that Eames was naked, all Arthur could see was his cock and think of all the cruel things men normally did with theirs.

But he buried that thought and held aside the thin curtain with its glittering gold for Eames to climb into bed.

Only the curtain separated them now. Arthur steeled his resolve but took his time folding Eames’ garments into neat and tidy piles on the dressing table near the fire. His back turned, Arthur unclasped his own fibulae and belt and let the tunica fall to his feet. A slave hurried forward to retrieve it before returning to her place in the corner with the others.

Another slave gathered the furs and covers when Eames pushed them down the bed. He watched Arthur move about the room with hungry eyes.

“Stop,” he whispered when Arthur touched the curtains again. “I want my mind's eye to always picture you like this. There’s something about your skin and how it just drinks in all the fire’s glow…”

Arthur could have said the same for Eames and everyone else in the room. He didn’t get how he was supposed to be so special, but… He lowered his eyes as Eames laughed in the same low voice.

“No one’s ever praised your beauty before. Well, you must forgive your Dominus for taking such pleasure in the sight of you, lamb. Now,” he stretched out his arm and held the curtain aside.

Arthur remembered Atta's warning, of being sold again if he was no good. It was all the convincing he needed to step forward and let Eames’ bulk flank his side when his back touched the soft mattress.

He was beyond relieved when Eames had a slave bring him wine and offered to share it with Arthur. He emptied the cup quickly and let Eames tease him for being thirsty though that was hardly the case.

And then the mandragora kicked in. Oh, how he would owe Atta his life in the morning! The butterflies in his stomach disappeared and with them, the shadow of painful memories. When he looked at Eames, he giggled, feeling silly. All the world was such a wonderful, pleasant place and every touch from Eames like a cascade of little blessings. He couldn’t remember why he’d been so afraid. The fuzzy, warm feeling mixed with Eames’ body heat and the fire’s warmth. If only he could stay this way forever.

He shivered when Eames took a handful of the curtain and placed it along his sensative belly before the weight of the embroideries made the fabric slip back to the floor.

“I shall have a tunica made for you in this same design, I think.” Eames made a sport of stroking Arthur’s skin wherever he could touch him. “You ought to be clothed in showers of gold, like Danaë when Zeus, whom we liken to Jupiter, helped her conceive her son. Do you know any of the stories, lamb?”

He shook his head in his haze, grinning when Eames’ light touch tickled under his arm. He watched Eames ease open his legs to lie between them. Arthur wasn’t sure if his budding arousal was from the mandragora or not. He hardly cared.

Arthur waved his arm up at the paintings and mosaics covering the walls and ceiling. “Are these the stories, Dominus?”

“Yes. Some of the more… _colorful_ ones. Mostly Greek,” he mused, catching Arthur’s arm as he still made to reach up and touch one of the painted figures. “They're much more free and uncensored than old Roman tales, in my opinion.”

Eames called over a slave to bring him a jar much like Atta’s. He kissed Arthur’s neck and spent several torturous minutes appreciating Arthur’s piercings, which Eames seemed to be very fond of. “According to the Greeks,” he said, supporting his weight on his elbow, “The princess of Argos, who would become the mother of Perseus, was forbidden by her father, King Akrisios, to bare children after a prophecy named such a child as the tool that would bring his death.”

Arthur’s eyes drifted over the canopy to one of the few paintings of a woman then settled on Eames’ lips. He blinked slowly, floating in the sound of Eames’ voice.

Eames dipped several of his fingers into the jar. “Lovely Danaë was heartbroken, you see, locked away in a chamber of bronze, underground, far away from any who hoped to court her. Perhaps many tried to penetrate her prison,” he whispered. His eyes closed to listen to Arthur’s soft sighs as he teased Arthur with curled fingers that glided carefully inside him. “However, none were successful, until one day.”

Arthur had flinched away from him a little at first, but had quickly relaxed. He hummed and let his hips rock minutely into Eames’ stroking fingers. Arthur was panting, his eyes heavy-lidded when Eames withdrew his touch. He had the sudden urge to imagine what it must be like to share a bed with a lover. It made him chuckle to himself, wondering where such an odd thought had come from.

Eames slicked his thick cock before a slave cleaned his hands. He sat on his knees and raised Arthur’s legs to his waist. “One day, when the sun had set, the powerful and always cunning Zeus found a way to infiltrate her prison and grant her a son.”

Arthur smiled as Eames paused to kiss the top of his foot. “How?”

Eames gazed down at him with a quiet smile. “They made love, but not as any mortal man would to a woman. He appeared in the guise of a shower of gold.” Arthur startled when Eames imitated the feel of rain, tickling and kissing his skin from his stomach to his chest, down his ribs, and up his thighs. Eames snickered as Arthur squirmed, laughing.

Arthur’s chest heaved, his smile still wide and free when Eames' tickling finally ceased. “You mean drops of gold like these, Dominus?” His fingertips touched the glittering curtains. “So…you are… _my_ Zeus now?” He was laughing again at how silly he sounded, but his words greatly pleased Eames.

“Yes,” Eames whispered proudly, lifting Arthur’s hips, “I am your Zeus now.”

Arthur gripped his pillow and held his breath as Eames entered him in slow, slow little strokes. His body wanted to fight against this all too familiar push, but he relaxed, at once overtaken again by the mandragora's spell. He grabbed Eames’ arms and tried to breathe through the stretch, focusing on the glide and the blush that burned his face. His spine arched. Above him, Eames was whispering words in a strange language Arthur had never heard before, still only half the way to filling Arthur completely.

Eames pulled back with so much care, Arthur couldn’t believe that this man wasn’t some divine being, because human men didn't do this. Arthur waited and waited for the shame and sickness to return, but as the Dominus moved in more little careful strokes, Arthur knew he was safe. He was safe, and it felt good to have these particular hands on him.

“Dominus,” the word finally tumbled from his lips in a groan that should have embarrassed him, but it could not be helped. Eames had his hips in an inescapable hold and took him with a pace that grew harder, deeper. It was as if being filled pushed every sound out of him and up to the ceiling.

When Arthur feared being overwhelmed, Eames slowed his hips and spread Arthur’s legs wider, pushing them to his chest, nearly folding him in half. A strange pleasure bloomed through Arthur now every time Eames rocked his hips flush against his ass. He tried to cover his mouth when the feeling grew more intense, but Eames took his hands and kept him from moving out of reach of that spot. That spot, that when pressed by Eames’ cock filled him with a sensation bordering on a full bladder and a strike of lightning that paralyzed Arthur's brain. It tingled from the tip of his fingers and toes, up his spine, and made his cock weep over the decoration on his navel. His voice rose in the most embarrassing, whimpering moans, but he squirmed under Eames, trying to get more of that touch.

Eames groaned appreciatively, feeling Arthur’s hips move. When Arthur’s abdomen contracted, he could see his precome glisten in the firelight. He made Arthur take his cock in hand and covered it with his own tight fist and fucked him harder, zeroing in on that spot until Arthur sobbed through a powerful release.

He was only aware of Eames finishing when his grip under his knees bruised. He tried not to grimace feeling come inside him. Perhaps it was the mandragora and wine wearing thin or just his own pride bubbling up after being dormant for so long, but his pleasant warmth soon faded to something cold.

Arthur closed his eyes when Eames doted on him with more petting and soft words of praise. He couldn’t explain how he felt now. His body was sore and tired, yes, but his mind was all over the place, jumping back and forth between the desire to cling to the last remnants of pleasure, or weeping under the weight of the accusations running through his head. Slave, whore, deviant… But he had no right to feel guilty. He was lucky. All that would forever be asked of him was this, as Atta had said. He dragged his fingertips over his stomach, through his own release, looking at himself critically. He thought back to one of the boys he'd seen cleaning the floor in the study. Arthur wondered if that boy would be happy to lie in bed rather than scrub dirt out of the cracks in the floor.

“Arthur? Did I hurt you?”

He looked at Eames, surprised by the man’s worry. What Dominus would fret over a slave’s well-being? He was lucky, indeed.

“No, Dominus.”

“Are you sure?”

He smiled a little and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“I’m glad." Eames stretched and smiled. "This is how it must be between us. You must always tell me if I’m too harsh in taking you, especially now, since this is new for you.”

If only that were true. Perhaps he would feel totally different now if it were. The urge to weep returned, stronger than before, but it was carried away just as quickly. Arthur was safe now. There was no more need for tears.

He felt utterly boneless when Eames lifted him onto his lap some time later in the night after he'd dozed a little. He winced, feeling Eames' cock enter him, fully hard again.

Eames ran his hands through the drying come on Arthur’s stomach and chest before taking his hips, rocking him in grinding circles. Arthur’s brow creased, his quiet moans tingeing on pain now that he was more lucid. Eames’ cock was unbearable in this position. No matter which way Eames encouraged Arthur to move, he still felt impaled. When Eames began to lift his hips, his cock pushing into the spot was nearly too much for Arthur, but he was hard in spite of the burn.

He sank onto his elbows, his hands on Eames’ shoulders. He closed his eyes when his forehead touched Eames, unable to hold the Dominus' surprisingly intimate stare. He buried his face in his neck until Eames pulled him back up by a fist in his hair, fucking him harder. His forehead touched Eames’ again. This time, he held his eyes as best he could, sharing Eames’ air. He felt powerless, trapped in Eames’ steady gaze.

Eames seemed to feed off of that. Even under Arthur, he was still completely in control and without a doubt that Arthur belonged to him. He drove in faster as he neared completion. He made Arthur sit up so he could run his hands over him again and play with his piercings. Arthur touched the head of his cock, repeating what he’d done before to come. Eames watched him stroke himself and came with a groan, feeling Arthur spasm around the base of his cock.

Arthur collapsed on the bed, exhausted and crashing from his rush. He startled a little when a few of the slaves appeared to wash off him and Eames, who was already drifting into a content sleep. Their warm, damp cloths soothed Arthur until it didn’t matter whose hands were cleaning between his legs. He was asleep before the others could even pull the sheets back over the bed to tuck him in.

+

 


	4. Bagoas, the favorite

+

 

Arthur woke up alone the next afternoon, sore, and feeling as if his brain had been turned to mud from last night's drink and drug.

Two simple gold rings sat waiting for him on Eames’ writing desk.

When the sun began to set, he did exactly as Mallorie and Atta had instructed him. He oiled himself, knelt on a cushion next to the small table outside of the Dominus' bedroom, and waited.

He was bored in seconds. Why couldn’t he wait in the study, on the couch, or even in the bedroom itself, instead of here where there was nothing to do but count the dust floating in the rays of sun through the windows? He stood up and paced, eyeing the vase on the table beside him, all while trying to pull more of his tunica over his chest and down more on his legs though without success. The thin, little maroon fabric was hung over only one shoulder and draped only once around his waist, held by a small bronze fibula on his hip. He might as well have just been naked. He rubbed his bare arms and sides, shivering in the winter’s chill. Even the silver nipple piercings were getting cold. He folded his arms to cover them and sighed, wondering how much longer he would have to be here.

Arthur told himself that he would go to the study, but chickened out when he heard Mallorie’s voice echo from down the corridor, followed by the Dominus'. He got back on the cushion quickly.

Mallorie wasn’t with Eames when he walked briskly to his bedroom, right past Arthur as if he hadn’t noticed him, but Arthur could hear him skid to halt just inside the room. He looked up in time to see Eames backtrack to him with a curious expression.

“Arthur…”

“Dominus?” He didn’t want to frown in the man’s face, but he didn’t know what else to do with Eames staring at him in such a strange way.

Eames shouted down the hall. “Mallorie? Tell them I’ll be a little late.” He cleared his throat and made Arthur stand.

Arthur clasped his hands behind him as watched Eames with his head down. He expected to be invited into the bedroom. Instead, he was pushed back against the wall by Eames’ bulk with his lips covered by a hungry pair.

Eames' thumb circled Arthur’s nipple before his lips followed. Eames pulled back only after he’d effectively made Arthur’s knees weak. He hoisted Arthur onto the table, knocking the vase to the floor.

Arthur tried to keep his balance as Eames hiked up his long, heavy toga, freeing his straining cock. He pushed Arthur’s legs open and hooked his arms under them. Arthur had to hold onto Eames' arms not to fall, and tried to keep quiet when Eames spat on his cock and fucked him impatiently. He understood full well why Atta had given him his advice. Without the oil, Eames’ hard pounding would have killed Arthur. The sudden stretch still burned. Eames moaned above him, his hands circling Arthur’s waist, his eyes devouring all of Arthur’s skin where his tunica slipped from his shoulder, baring all of his chest. He fucked harder, crushing pieces of the broken vase under his sandals as he planted his feet.

Arthur’s panting issued from his lips with little mewling sounds when Eames withdrew and turned him on his stomach. Arthur held onto the table’s leg, his moans desperate, as Eames spread his ass and drove back in, pushing Arthur on his tiptoes with every smack of his hips. Arthur’s cock leaked under the table. He thought to reached for it, but he could already feel Eames’ cock throb as he released deep inside him.

It was over, just like that. Eames came with a quiet, shaking groan and pulled out carefully. He kissed the back of Arthur’s neck, catching his breath. His smile was smug when he saw Arthur’s erection.

Arthur gasped when Eames squeezed his cock and whispered in his ear, “Save this for me, for later, when I get to have you properly. In the meantime, I want you undressed and waiting for me in bed when I return.” Eames kissed him hungrily, righted his clothes, and hurried to his bedroom for the slaves and Mallorie to dress him for supper.

Mallorie glared Arthur down for the broken vase, but seeing his dishevelment, she snapped at a slave to sweep and polish the floor and held her tongue when she passed him.

“I swear that boy was sent to me from the gods, Mal,” he heard Eames say when he peeked into the room. “His little hole is like the gateway to pleasures unknown in some undiscovered world! Damn the timing. Can’t we send the guests home?"

"This is an important evening," she reminded him.

"I want nothing else but to fuck Arthur again, I don’t want to waste my evening listening to a bunch of old men, still wailing over Nero’s death, gripe about the costs of seizing Jerusalem. Any fool with sand for a brain knows that wars are expensive.”

Arthur paled in horror to be spoken of so rudely in front of a woman as dignified as Mallorie. He stopped eavesdropping and covered his face, though it did nothing to stop his embarrassment.

“And Atta,” Eames was saying, “will most definitely receive one day off a week to do as he pleases from now on. He deserves it after giving the boy those lewd little decorations.”

Arthur peeked into the room again just in time to see the lustful look on Eames’ face right the before the man growled like a beast, scaring one of the slaves. Eames laughed and shrugged when Mallorie gave him reproachful look.

“Do you think I should have Atta train him, Mal, as he did with Cassius? Or no. No, I think I’d like to do it myself. I don’t much appreciate the idea of anyone else’s hands on him.”

Arthur was shocked when Mallorie threw her head back and laughed, truly amused. The sound was surprisingly pleasant. She really was beautiful without her scowl.

“Eames,” she teased, “I don’t believe it.”

Eames crossed his arms. At first, Arthur feared he would strike her for laughing at him, but Eames was holding back his own laughter. “Why do you say that?”

“ _You_ , Eames? Oh, please.”

“What? I’m allowed to be selfish with my toys, Mal.”

Mallorie’s brow rose. “Ah, I see.”

He puffed out his chest. “Exactly. Why do you look like that?”

She eyed him critically for a moment. “Apparently,” she whispered so low, Arthur could barely hear, “a few of the slaves who tended to you last night assumed that he was more to you than just a toy.”

He frowned. “You never talk to the slaves. Who told you this nonsense?”

“Who always tells me what the slaves say?”

Eames snorted. “Of course Atta would entertain such gossip.”

"Eames, you _did_ share your meal with him, you let him into your study…"

"Does that mean something?"

Arthur waited for Mallorie to respond, but the woman said nothing, her expression blank. It confused Arthur. Was she not Eames’ wife, the Domina of the house? They didn’t kiss, they didn’t touch, and certainly a wife would not be folding the Dominus' clothes, would she? She hadn’t even been angry that Eames used Arthur, but she _had_ been clearly enraged over the broken vase. Wouldn’t a wife care more of the first and not at all for the later?

“You know what I’m thinking,” he heard Eames say.

“You can’t cancel, Eames,” Mallorie said.

“No, no, no.” He began to pace, his back turned. “When do you think Miles will be back?”

Arthur didn’t understand Mallorie’s pained expression. Her face was impassive when Eames looked at her.

“Next week, at the latest, with plenty of new stories for you, I’m sure.”

“Excellent! I want Arthur to read for him. Miles would love that. Send someone out to make sure he visits as soon as he returns to Rome.”

Arthur quickly moved back from the door when Eames prepared to leave with Mallorie right behind him.

His embarrassment was renewed tenfold when Eames stopped to give him another deep kiss and slipped two fingers back inside him.

Mallorie cleared her throat. Eames sucked a bruise under his ear and added a third finger. Arthur looked everywhere else but in the her direction. He clamped his hand over his mouth, but the moan still slipped free when Eames hooked his fingers. Mallorie cleared her throat louder.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Eames grumbled, nipping Arthur’s bottom lip. He flashed him a charming smile and cleaned his hand on the tunica under his toga, earning another pained look from Mallorie.

She tsked. “You haven’t even reached the landing yet—”

“And my clothes are already ruined,” Eames finished, glancing at Arthur over his shoulder as he and Mallorie walked away. “Yes I know, I know. It's a travesty, but that boy, Mallorie. That boy is a Siren, I swear!”

Arthur stood stock still when two slave boys approached him without saying a word and undressed him right there in the doorway. One took his tunica and disappeared with it while the other took a damp towel and cleaned his inner thighs before joining the other slave into the bedroom.

Arthur followed behind them. “Um…” Another slave pulled back the covers as one held the bed curtains aside as if to tell Arthur to get in. The slaves didn’t seem too inclined to give him new clothes. He kept the sheets up high around his chest. “But… I'm a little hungry?”

They paused. One hurried off and returned with Atta. The eunuch was singing when he reached the doorway, holding a plate of food that made Arthur’s stomach growl. He sat up, tugging the covers tighter around his waist. “Aren’t you going to sit with me?”

“Can't. I’m not permitted into the Dominus' bedroom.” He pouted and held the plate aside when a girl reached for it. “Allow me, child.” He shooed her away and looked at Arthur expectantly. "Well?"

Arthur frowned. How would he eat if Atta couldn’t bring him the food and wouldn’t allow anyone else to either? He blushed when Atta smirked. Heaving a sigh, he left the warmth and modesty of the sheets behind in favor of eating.

“Don’t hate me for saying this,” Atta purred, “but sex suits you so well! You're glowing. Look at those perky little nipples.” He chuckled when Arthur fidgeted self-consciously. He tried to turn Arthur to see his ass, grinning when his hand was swatted away. “You're leaking a little. Want me to give you a bath?”

He grimaced as he ate. “I’m not sure I’m allowed to have one yet.” He startled when Atta smacked his cheek lightly.

“Don't chew and talk at the same time. Don't your people have manners where you come from?”

He glared. He was naked in front of a group of fully dressed people! Some of Eames' come was still on Atta's hand! Even one of the boys who was tending to the fire had an erection that was obvious under his scant clothing. Surely table manners couldn't be that important, considering.

Atta nudged Arthur’s elbow. “Do you think the master will let that boy fuck you if you asked nicely?”

He turned in the direction of Atta’s gaze as the stocky boy glanced at him. They both quickly averted their eyes. Arthur glared from Atta's smug grin to his food, his cheeks red.

“You can scoop up great handfuls of your meal and send me off, but the second you spill a single crumb in that bed, the master will skin you, no matter how loud you make him roar when he comes, so you might as well enjoy my company and eat your supper here. Oh, that poor boy can't think straight from looking at you.”

“Atta, stop. Please?”

“I bet that boy’s going to come all over himself as soon as he leaves the room. His cock is adorable.”

Arthur closed his eyes and groaned, wishing he could disappear. If he didn't love the fish and salad Atta'd brought him, he'd have sent him off, or at least, tried to.

“I wonder if it curves upward or down, and if his come erupts in thick white ropes or clear spritz. I wonder what it tastes like. Probably peasant food since he's new—Arthur are you even attracted to boys?”

“ _No_. I'm not attracted to anybody.”

"Really?" Atta studied him for minute. “When you picture Mal, what’s the first thing that comes to mind?”

“Her glaring and yelling at me.”

He snorted. “And when you think of the Dominus, what do your mind's eyes see?”

 _His cock_. Arthur looked away. He swallowed and crossed his arms, not saying a word.

“Exactly,” Atta sighed, still smiling. “You aren’t attracted to a _boy_ , you’re attracted to a _man_. I know that feeling all too well, my sweet.” He handed Arthur the plate at last, earning another glare. "Squeeze around the master's cock tightly as he leaves your body. It will keep more of his seed in you than out."

" _Atta_!"

He laughed and kissed Arthur’s cheek. He winked. “Enjoy.”

 

Arthur hung his head and moaned, his eyes closed as Eames took him on his hands and knees. He could feel Eames’ release from earlier still running down his legs. It made his cock impossibly hard.

He couldn’t allow himself to think of his conversation with Atta. He couldn’t admit even to himself that the eunuch had been right, even as he found himself pushing back onto Eames’ cock of his own accord and moaning when rough hands caressed his back and pinched his nipples.

He didn’t even have to touch his cock when he came. Just feeling Eames stretching him, rubbing that spot, and grunting out his pleasure as they sweated and rocked together was enough.

Arthur couldn't begin to understand what this meant.

+

 


	5. Euryalus, the lost one

+

 

“'But, my A-fri-ca-nus, replied Tub-ero…Tu-ber-ro?'” Arthur glanced over at Eames to make sure he’d pronounced the name correctly before continuing, “'of what credit is this tradition which states that So-cra-tes rejected all these physical in-ve-sti-ga-tions, and confined his whole attention to men and manners?’” Arthur could feel a headache coming. The scroll was difficult, and _boring_. “'In this respect, what better authority can we cite than Plato’s? And in many passages of his works, Socrates speaks in a very different manner, and even in his discussions respecting morals, and virtues, and politics, he endeavors to interweave, after the fashion of'…” He frowned at the word, “'P-yth? Pyth'…”

“Pythagoras,” Eames spoke softly over Arthur's reading. He’d had stayed home today. Eames sat in his study in the early afternoon as Arthur read to him on the couch from one of the longer scrolls, Arthur's ears red as he struggled through it.

Arthur stared at the text as if demanding it read itself so that he would no longer have to. On days like these, he wished that Eames had never found out that he could read, because he was sure it didn’t look like he could, with all this stumbling. “Py…tha…gor…as?”

“Close enough.”

“'After the fashion of Pythagoras the doctrines of'…” He rubbed his eyes.

“Arithmetic,” Eames supplied for him.

“'A-rith-me-tic'…”

“Geometry.”

“'Ge-o…Geo-me-try, and har-mo-nic proportions.'”*

“Very good, Arthur.”

He tried to smile with Eames. Arthur hadn’t the slightest clue what any of these words meant or what was happening in the text at all. “Thank you, Dominus.”

Arthur was supposed to read for one of Eames’ closest friends today. It made him nervous. He wanted to distract himself until the time arrived, but Cicero was proving to be a disastrous read.

“Open your legs,” he heard Eames say after a while more of his stumbling through the text. He ignored his growing blush, obeying Eames’ command.

“Wider, please.”

Arthur tried to hold his tongue, but he snapped. “Would it not be easier for me to just get naked for you? This is uncomfortable!” Damn his unruly mouth. Arthur sighed, bracing himself for punishment.

Eames’ brow rose. “Yes. Actually, it would. _Smartass_. Give me your tunica.”

Arthur paused for a moment, hoping Eames was joking, but the man only blinked and waited with his hand out.

“Dominus, it's chilly in here,” he muttered, watching Eames fold and place his clothes in a neat pile in his lap under the desk.

Eames sat back in his chair. “Remember that next time. You’ll get your clothes back when Miles gets here.” He smirked, adding, “You should be lucky I didn’t go after those ears again, little monkey." 

"Yes, Dominus."

"These clothes are so very small!" Eames proclaimed, petting the thin tunica. "Barely enough fabric to swaddle a baby in.”

Arthur tried not to glare as he slouched lower on the couch and sat with his legs open, quietly fuming.

Eames looked at him with a satisfied grin. “Better.” His eyes traveled from Arthur’s lap to his face. “Thank you, Arthur,” he said, putting on his most charming tone and smile. 

Arthur fidgeted with the scroll. He _hated_ when Eames did that. It made his lips quirk in a tiny smile involuntarily, and his nipples harden, his cheeks and ears bright red. It was one of Eames’ method’s of flirting and his idea of being polite. Arthur loathed to say it made him feel funny every time.

More and more, as the days passed, Arthur found that his body was beginning to react to the silliest things. Eames’ hand on his arm in passing, hearing Eames' voice, Eames' soft sighs in the morning when he woke and the smile that followed when he’d see Arthur lying next to him. It made no sense at all, especially when Arthur's heart decided to get involved. Eames had hugged him yesterday when he’d returned home in the evening and Arthur swore his heart had flipped upside down in his chest.

Did this sort of thing happen to other bed slaves when they were new, like some sort of bond with their Dominus?

He would ask Atta, if the eunuch wouldn’t simply turn around and use it against him. The Egyptian played with him enough already. Each day, it seemed, the eunuch had different scented bath oils or milk and flower petals for Arthur to use in the fountain on days he knew Eames would be home all day, knowing that Eames loved to watch Arthur bathe, loved to smell the sweet scents on Arthur's skin and hair. And Atta draped Arthur’s tunicas thinner and shorter every time. On the days Eames returned late to the villa, Atta would nearly throw Arthur into his arms. No way could Arthur trust him. But Arthur could hardly trust _himself_ either. Only one time since Arthur had been here did he see Eames give Atta a compliment, for the henna design on the Egyptian's hand, making Atta blush and giggle under Eames' brief attention. Arthur, to this day, could not describe or fathom the feeling that washed over him at seeing that. Arthur never said no to letting Atta put henna on him ever again.

But as much as Arthur tried to ignore these strange new parts of himself, as much as these reactions made him _hate_ himself…

He still glanced up again from his reading and found it even harder to fight back his smile when Eames winked at him. 

+

 

Arthur tried to sit quietly and wait, but his attention had already followed Eames out of the room as soon as Mallorie had announced this other man’s arrival. He could hear Eames and Mallorie’s voices grow fainter as they headed for the stairs to greet this man.

He didn’t creep far from the study after he’d been redressed, but he crouched low behind a statue at the top of the stairs, until he could see who it was.

He sat back on the couch and took up the scroll again, still nervous. The older man surprised Arthur, leaving him to wonder how Eames could have met such a grey-haired, weathered-looking man. His colorful clothes were nowhere near as fine as Eames’. He wore no jewelry, or any sign that he too might have been a politicians.

Arthur wondered if his nerves were obvious when Eames and the man joined him in the study.

Eames was smiling, still laughing from the joke he’d been told. “Arthur, this is Miles. He was my mentor when I was a younger man, and a good friend. Now, be good to him.”

“Yes, Dominus.” His shoulders sank a little when Eames turned and left them alone. He eyed the man as Miles refused help from a slave and moved Eames’ desk chair himself.

Miles brought it to sit in front of Arthur. He placed his leather bag on the floor. “So, Eames has told me that you’re educated?”

“Yes, sir. Well…” He fidgeted with the short hem of his tunica, keeping his legs tightly closed. “I read for him, although…not always very good.”

Miles chuckled. “At least you’re honest. Eames said that you were somewhere far closer to perfect than that.”

Arthur’s mouth fell open. This man had to be lying.

Miles pointed to the scroll about to slip from Arthur’s grasp. “What’s that you’ve got?”

“What—Oh!” He showed Miles, hating that Eames had picked something so dull and difficult. It wasn’t just that he had no idea what Eames wanted from him, what Miles really wanted from him. He tried to be modest, making sure the scroll stayed over his lap, but that only made his reading worse.

Just when he thought his headache couldn’t get any worse, Miles stopped him with a hand on his knee.

“I think that’s enough of this.”

Arthur let him take the scroll and place it on Eames’ desk.

Miles was chuckling again. “You know, Arthur, your master is one peculiar man. I’m sure you know how…perhaps eccentric he is, and yet his taste in literature can be rather drab at times.”

Arthur couldn’t agree more, but he said nothing as Miles removed his cloak and draped it over Arthur’s shoulders.

“You looked a little cold. Better?”

Much better. “Thank you, sir.” He pulled the cloak around him tighter, liking the way it smelled like incense. He tried to peek into Miles’ bag as the man sat rifling through some his scrolls.

“Oh, see, now, this is much better. Let’s try a bit of poetry, from Catullus, which…Eames shouldn’t mind you reading too much.” He pointed to one. “Read it to yourself first, and then aloud. Slowly. No need to rush through it and stumble. I’m an old man with nothing but time to gift you, my boy.”

Arthur accepted the new scroll, his brow creased as his lips moved, whispering the syllables until he had a better grasp of the flow. He cleared his throat. “‘Now Spring returns mild and temperate, now the wild e-qui-noc-tial skies are calmed by Zephyr’s happier breezes. The fields of Phrygia will be forsaken, Catullus, rich farms of hot Nicaea: we’ll flee to Asia’s bright cities. Now restless minds long for travel, now the glad feet stir with pleasure. Oh sweet crowd of friends farewell, who came together from far places, whom divergent roads must carry.’”** He looked to Miles expectantly, ready for the man to find fault in some place or another.

But Miles’ eyes were close, as if hearing the poem was akin to drinking the greatest wine. “That was lovely, Arthur, and much more fun, correct?”

Arthur smiled a little, pleased with himself and relaxing. “May I read another?”

Miles grinned and sat forward in his chair. “Oh yes, please, read on.”

Arthur skimmed through several more. Some of them too difficult to try to read aloud, but he reached a simple enough challenge. “‘Yesterday, Calvus, idle day we played with my writing tablets, harmonizing in being delightful: scribbling verses, each of us playing with metres, this and that, reciting together, through laughter and wine. And I left there fired with your charm, Calvus, and with your wit, so that, restless, I couldn’t enjoy food, or close my eyes quietly in sleep, but tossed the whole bed about wildly in passion, longing to see the light, so I might speak to you, and be with you. But afterwards I lay there wearied with effort, half-dead in the bed, I made this poem for you, pleasantly, from which you might gather my pain. Now beware of being rash, don’t reject my prayers I beg, my darling, lest Nemesis demand your punishment. She’s a powerful goddess. Beware of annoying her.’ Hm... this Catullus does not seem very successful in obtaining lovers.” 

Miles chuckled at Arthur’s expression. “Better than that political rubbish from Cicero, isn’t it?”

+

 

Eames lounged on the bed that night, watching Arthur bathe in the fountain. He tried to keep his amusement hidden as Arthur rambled nonstop about Miles and his stories. “Did he tell you about his travels?”

“A little.” He paused to let the stream of water pouring from the lion’s mouth wash away the oils from his hair and face. “I mostly read. He wished he could have brought more scrolls with him—oh, and stories as well, although I’m not really sure that I would be ready for those if he had. Too many analogies and references that I don’t know. Dominus?”

Eames did chuckle now, seemingly delighted by this chatty side of Arthur, who admittedly was normally so quiet in the evenings. “Yes, lamb?”

Arthur stepped out of the fountain to dry off in a blanket. “Could you invite him back for another visit?”

Eames smiled, beckoning Arthur over to the bed. “Funny you should ask. Miles adored you today. I’m thinking of asking him to be your tutor.”

“Really?” He let Eames pull him into his lap, the blanket pooling around his waist.

“Truly. Tomorrow we’ll write to him this invitation. Will you be able to rest until then?” he teased, knowing certainly that he’d just given Arthur the greatest gift—only if Miles said yes to the request.

+

 

The next day, Arthur and Eames returned to the study. Arthur had never written much in Latin before. He stood beside Eames as the man sat at his desk, guiding Arthur’s hand.

Arthur's writing stumbled a little when Eames’ hand found its way high up between his legs.

Eames' thumb slid between his cheeks to tease his slick hole before pushing in, his fingers grazed his piercing.

Arthur gasped, unable to remember what he was supposed to be doing. His head lolled back. He sighed when the touch vanished, but Eames guided him by his hips to face him.

"Just a little break," Eames muttered, lifting Arthur's tunica to kiss around his navel, "and we'll finish the letter."

Arthur held the linen up with his arm to see Eames shower his stomach with more soft kisses. He smiled when Eames glanced up at him, his eyes hungry. Arthur moved to stand between Eames’ chair and the desk.

Eames rewarded him by massaging his perineum and slipping his finger back inside for a brief moment. His intensions didn’t seem to want to lead to more than a little petting and teasing. His lips tickling across Arthur's skin seemed more for praise than anything else.

Arthur panted, when the kisses traveled higher, along his belt line. Eames stroked his hips.

“Dominus,” they heard a voice speak from the doorway.

Atta waited for Eames to look his way before entering the study. “Quintus and the Consul are here to see you.”

“Damn,” Eames sighed, tickling Arthur's skin with his nose. “I had hoped to spend the day with you, Arthur.” He kissed his stomach again before he stood to leave. 

Atta smiled as soon as Eames left. “Don't look so sad."

"I'm not."

Atta rolled his eyes and chuckled. He reached out his hand. "Come along, Arthur, I’ve got honey water and sweets for us in the atrium.”

+

 

“Why do you look at me like that?”

Atta held up his hands. “Nothing serious, just… I wonder at your ways, that’s all. Whatever you’re doing to our master, please, boy, never stop. No one, not even Cassius ever received belly kisses in the middle of the day, in the middle of the Dominus’ study, before. Good work.”

Arthur glanced up, a little surprised. “Really?”

“Really. Of course, when Cassius was told that the study was off limits, he actually listened, but…you weren’t whipped for it. That’s good. That’s great, in fact. Does he take you to bed often?”

“All the time.” His ears turned red when Atta chuckled.

Atta sipped more of his honey water. “Some men are like that. Even the old ones. They lose their youth and still their virility remains forever high; even after they’re all wrinkly and grey. It’s incredible. You’ll be milking our master’s cock for decades.”

“Most mornings he even takes me while I’m still sleeping.”

“My goodness! That’s certainly new!” His face fell. “Oh, but you’re alright, aren’t you? I mean, I could  _try_  to talk him into pacing himself if this is too much for you. He certainly wouldn’t want to wear out you so fast—”

“No. I… I actually…prefer it.” He played with his belt. “Sometimes, I—do you promise not to tell anyone what I intend to say?”

Atta held up his hand. “I swear.”

“On?”

He shrugged. “I swear on Janus and Isis.”

Arthur frowned and shook his head. “I don’t know what those are.”

“Fine. I swear on my own life, then.”

Arthur moved to sit closer and peeked around them. “Sometimes I have strange dreams about…about a clear night sky and a shining round moon,” he whispered. “I’m not outside. I’m… I see it as if through a window; as if the sky is covered, save for this small square that lets me see the moon and stars. I try to reach up for it and always find myself on my back, restrained, like I’m paralyzed… I can’t see anything else. It’s all black except for this patch of sky. When I wake up from this dream alone, it destroys me. The slaves must all think I’m insane. I wake up in a puddle of tears, shaking… I feel… I don’t know.”

Atta nodded. “I think I have seen you a few times after such dreams. You’re a different person on those mornings.”

“But when I wake up and he’s so close to me,  _in_  me, I don’t feel haunted.”

“You feel safe?” He smiled when Arthur nodded. “Have you told the master about this dream?”

“No.”

“You should think about it. Everyone has nightmares. It won’t make him love you less.”

Arthur snorted. “He doesn’t love me, Atta.”

“’Course he does, and you love him too.”

“That’s even more absurd.”

Atta laughed, his gaze fond. “Yes, how foolish of me to assume that water is wet by looking at it. Speaking of wet—”

“No, no, no. I don’t want to talk anymore of sex, Atta.”

“Oh, but I just have one small question, please? Just a little one.” He poked Arthur’s ribs and tickling him to get him to talk. “I only want to know what he tastes like, that’s all, I promise.”

Arthur was still laughing when he shrugged. “No idea at all.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? Even if you swallow with him halfway down your throat, you’ll still taste it.”

Arthur grimaced at the thought and shook his head. “He has never used my mouth.”

Atta sat back, his eyes wide. “No? My goodness, I’m a little afraid of you, Arthur. What on earth have you done to that man?”

Arthur shrugged again. “He’s taken  _me_  in  _his_  mouth before, several times. He seems to really enjoy it. I do as well.”

Atta’s smiled crumbled. “What?”

“Maybe that’s why. I supposed he prefers…” Arthur tilted his head. “I… I said, he enjoys taking me into his—” He was startled when Atta lunged forward and clamped his hands over Arthur’s mouth.

“Not another word.” Atta looked around them quickly and spotted a boy painting over a scratch on one of the columns within earshot. “Come here, boy!” He let go of Arthur and shot him a hard look.

When the timid Syrian boy approached, Atta grabbed the front of his tunica. “I am in charge of your entire life, boy, so listen carefully, if you wish to keep your backside away from my whip. If I find out you’ve been eavesdropping and spreading rumors about the Dominus, I will cut out your tongue and wear it for a necklace, understand, little boy?”

The boy swallowed and nodded quickly. He ran back to his work when Atta let him go.

Arthur stared from Atta to the boy with bewilderment. “I don’t understand. What’s all the fuss about?”

Atta hushed him loudly and leaned forward to whisper. “Were there other slaves present when he did this?”

“No. He sends them away when he—”

“Have you told anyone else about this?”

“No. You’re the only person I talk to.”

“Good. You must never tell anyone what you’ve just told me.”

“But why—”

“Because it isn’t allowed. Stop asking me questions! And don’t do anything stupid, Arthur. If the master thinks that you are ignorant of Roman ways, keep it that way.”

+ 

 

Arthur couldn't wait for Miles to return with more scrolls. His collection of poetry seemed unending. Arthur was instantly lost as soon as his eyes focused on the text, as if he were there with these characters as Catullus told their stories, line by line.

He eagerly unraveled more of the new scroll Miles brought him, and saw another short poem that looked interesting. “‘What can I say, Gellius, as to why those red lips become whiter than winter snow, when you leave your house in the morning or when the eighth hour wakes you placid and weak in the long day? It’s something, for sure: perhaps rumor’s whisper is true that you’…” Arthur frowned, blushing before he continued, “‘that you swallow the tall jet from a man’s groin?’” He looked to Miles to make sure he’d read that line correctly, but Miles only chuckled back, so he went on. “This is for sure: Victor's strained thighs proclaim it, and your lips marked with dried semen.’” He shook his head. “Miles, sir, this…seems not very nice to Gellius. This is not a love poem, is it?”

Miles laughed again, his smile mischievous. “You’re right, my boy. That is a poem swimming in vulgar insult.

“Oh.” Arthur read the poem again to himself. “ _Oh_.” Now Atta’s warning of Roman ways made more sense, though he refused to think more on that path for now.

He skipped over many of the more romantic verses, favoring Catullus’ poems of simple praise and musings—and his daggers, those verses that cut down his foes, laid bare their betrayals, and had Arthur’s mouth agape and eyes wide to see such attacks from a poet that someone like Miles would love so much.

In one sitting, he’d asked the man, “Miles, sir? What is a ‘catamite?’”

“Oh, um… Well, Arthur, you see…” Miles fidgeted in his chair, his cheeks red, before he explained.

Arthur didn’t read that particular poem a second time, but it didn’t stop him from reading those poems that followed, lines of Catullus’ jealousy of his Lesbia’s more attractive lovers, his dismay when rejected by Iuventius, and more scandalous words to yet another friend turned enemy.

It seemed that he’d never known true happiness until the Dominus allowed him to bring his reading to bed with him after Arthur begged.

“Just remember, lamb, that your first priority is pleasing me,” Eames had said, and Arthur  _did_  please him. Three times that night.

Of course, wearing Eames out had adverse consequences, Arthur learned. Eames hated sleeping in any light. Arthur had to watch him call a slave to take the scroll from him so the candles could all be snuffed out. Arthur lied awake in the dark, pouting.

No matter. In the morning, Arthur woke with Eames taking him and was given the scroll back soon after Eames was spent. 

The breeze made the bed curtains flutter. Arthur lounged on his belly, the scroll propped up on the pillows and opened to where he’d left off the night before. He was hooked at once.

Eames didn’t mind in the least. He trailed kisses along Arthur’s spine and shoulders. His fingers grazed the curve of Arthur’s ass. “Will you read some of it to me?” He asked, his lips at the small of Arthur’s back. He sent the slaves away. 

Arthur blushed, knowing what was coming. When Eames turned him onto his back, he parted his legs, ready for Eames to nestle between them. He read the next poem aloud, though short of breath, when Eames' mouth touched the head of his cock. “‘I stole a sweet kiss while you played, sweet Iuventius, one sweeter than sweetest ambrosia. Not taken indeed with impunity: for more than an hour I remember, I hung at the top of the gallows, while I was justifying myself to you, yet with my tears I couldn’t lessen your anger a tiny morsel—’”

“Oh that poor, poor man,” Eames muttered, his lips on the underside of Arthur’s length.

Arthur had to close his eyes and breathe deep when he touched the back of Eames’ throat. He moaned, trying to focus. “‘No…no sooner was it done, than, your lips rinsed with plenty of water, you banished it with your fingers, so nothing contracted from my lips might remain, as though it were the foul spit of a tainted whore’... Oh, Dominus,” he sighed when Eames groaned, sending vibrations seemingly through Arthur’s entire body.

“I like hearing you say filthy words like ‘whore.’ Keep going.”

“‘More, you handed me unhappily to...vicious love who’s not failed to torment me in every way, so that sweet kiss, altered for me from ambrosia, was more bitter than bitter hellebore then. Since you lay down such punishments for unhappy love, now, after this, I’ll never steal kisses again.’”

Eames kissed his soft, inner thighs, lapping up Arthur's come. He kissed up to his knee, chuckling. "I used to envy Catullus' way with words, but now that I know more of his way with lovers, I've changed my mind. You would never scorn me, would you, sweet, merciful Arthur?"

His smile couldn't be contained. If Atta could see him now, the eunuch would mock him until the end of time. "No, Dominus."

"Good." Eames kissed his navel. "Read me another, please."

Arthur was more than happy to oblige.

+ 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's reading:
> 
> * The Political Works of Marcus Tullius Cicero: Comprising his Treatise on the Commonwealth; and his Treatise on the Laws. Translated from the original, with Dissertations and Notes in Two Volumes. By Francis Barham, Esq. (London: Edmund Spettigue, 1841-42). Vol. 1.
> 
> ** Catullus, poems 46, 55, 80, 99. Translated by A. S. Kline


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